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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958556">Magic Trick</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april'>bastet_in_april</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Babysitting, Discworld References, Multi, Stage Magic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:35:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the GO Secret Santa exchange, as a gift for hardly-functioning-morals.</p>
<p>Aziraphale marvelled quietly at the ingenuity of humans, to create miracles of their own.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Magic Trick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale had always developed fascinations for peculiarly specific bits of human culture, and Crowley usually enjoyed indulging even the ones that he found a bit odd. What was the draw in Regency-period silver snuff boxes, for instance? It wasn’t as though Aziraphale had any particular use for them--he didn’t use snuff, and so had no reason to wish for a dainty container as a means to carry the stuff about in a pocket. Crowley saw little interest in collecting ancient leather-bound first editions with cracked spines and dusty pages, either. He didn’t read, he liked to insist, and, if that was a lie, then surely glossy coffee table books full of remarkable photos were more his style.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Crowley loved to indulge Aziraphale’s fascinations. He enjoyed the excitement on his face as he examined a new find for his bookshop, turning the pages carefully with gloved hands. He loved the surprise on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley presented him with a beautifully engraved little snuffbox, with mother-of-pearl inlay. He loved the way Aziraphale would expound on the delights of a new patisserie shop, and the way his eyes would roll up ever so slightly at the ecstasy of a perfectly prepared piece of nigirizushi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stage magic, though, was where Crowley drew the line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had happened while Crowley was asleep. In 1871, an up-and-coming stage magician named Alexander Herrmann parted ways with his brother Carl, in order to establish his reputation via a solo act. While Carl continued to tour Europe, Alexander headed for London.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In 1871, Aziraphale was still an angry, terrified recluse. It had been nine years since his fateful meeting with Crowley in St. James’s Park. He hadn’t seen Crowley since their argument, and he wasn’t sure whether he was more likely to dissolve into tears or shouting if he saw Crowley again, or, frighteningly, if he didn’t. So he stayed in his shop, fretfully conditioning old leather bindings and being increasingly curt with the few customers who dared cross the shop’s threshold. Perhaps the neighborhood noticed. Perhaps it was a concerned neighbor who thought that odd Mr. Fell really ought to get out of that dusty old shop more often who slipped the advertisement under the shop’s door. Perhaps it was simply a paperboy who’d been paid a bit extra to distribute the fliers. Perhaps it was chance. Perhaps it was ineffable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Regardless, Aziraphale picked up the flyer and was charmed and arrested by the image of the thin man with the goatee and curling mustache, dressed smartly in a black tailcoat and brandishing a magic wand. “Herrmann the Great!” it proclaimed. “Master of the Magical Arts! Now Performing at the Egyptian Hall!” The man was surrounded by whirling petals, playing cards, and doves in flight, and comically outlandish cartoon demons peered from the edges of the playbill to marvel at the magician.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helpless, Aziraphale’s first thought was that this was exactly the sort of show Crowley would love--a perfect chance to see humanity’s remarkable capacity for imagination at work, while the demon snarked and snickered into his hand at the feats of “magic,” from where he sprawled into his seat. Aziraphale crushed that thought down into something small and sad, like a crumpled ball of paper, and tucked it neatly away. He took a deep breath. There was no reason not to attend the show on his own. He couldn’t hide in his shop forever, as the world continued to move around him. And perhaps Crowley would have the same thought, and Aziraphale might yet see him in the crowd at the Egyptian Hall, heckling the performer and downing expensive wine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So it was that Aziraphale found himself in a packed theater, its ceiling bedecked with pseudo-Egyptian frescoes complete with strings of artistic renderings of hieroglyphic text (having resided in Egypt for a time during the Ramesside period, and categorically unable to resist reading anything with words on it, if it was within view, Aziraphale was rather bemused to find that the hieroglyphs on the column to the left of him read, “your mother keeps house with water buffalo, and your father smells of lotus root”). Aziraphale was disappointed not to spot a familiar shock of red hair, or a distinctively sauntering gait, amongst the theatergoers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd buzzed with excitement as Herrmann took the stage, looking theatrically dapper in a tailcoat and tophat, and slightly malevolent, with his goatee and curled moustache like a villain from a penny dreadful. He produced a deck of cards, seemingly from thin air, fanning them out in flourishes, conjuring them from audience members’ pockets, and then turning them into an explosion of colorful ribbons that streamed through the air. Aziraphale felt himself get drawn into the show, as pieces of set dressing--grand fruit trees, ruby-colored lamps, even a burbling fountain--appeared in puffs of incense-scented purple or green smoke. The crowd gasped in wonder or shock, as Herrmann unveiled each new wonder. He produced a dove from a woman’s evening glove, making her laugh with delight. To the surprise of the crowd a rabbit leaped from his tophat, after he tapped it twice with his wand. The onlookers erupted into delighted laughter, as the conjurer tried and failed to convince it to return to his hat, finally turning it into a monogrammed handkerchief, instead. Aziraphale marvelled quietly at the ingenuity of humans, to create miracles of their own. This was so different from the times he had witnessed angelic miracles being performed before crowds of humans. That had been a thing of terror, each mortal witness made small and helpless before the gaze of Michael or Gabriel. The magician, conjuring marvels and wielding powers the crowd did not comprehend, instead welcomed them into the experience with humor and charm, sharing the wonder of it with them, and delighting in their reactions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale thought again of Crowley, and bit his lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The magician waded a bit further into the crowd, pulling a shiny coin from behind a boy’s ear, and offering him the prize. He paused before Aziraphale, and doffed his silk top hat, offering it to Aziraphale, “You, good sir! Look into my hat! Can you confirm for the crowd that it is empty?” Aziraphale stood, peering into the hat, before agreeing for the rest of the audience that it was empty, and an ordinary hat, as far as he could perceive. “Thank you! Now I see by the lines of care and worry upon your brow that something troubles you, so I have the spirits to deliver a wonder to set your heart at ease. The imps and spectres have told me that what you fear shall not come to pass! Now, reach into this empty hat, and see the wonder the demon has delivered as a sign!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale reached into the silk hat, and felt his hand close around a smooth, round shape. He pulled forth a perfect, shining red apple.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mrs. and Mr. Device were celebrating their anniversary by going on a short trip to the seaside, and needed a babysitter to look after six-year-old Magrat. Adam and the Them had each been given due consideration as potential sitters, but it was nearing end-of-term at school, and university applications and exams were making the teens look increasingly unglued. While Madame Tracey might be trusted with a small child, both parents agreed that Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired) was a last resort, only in case of impending apocalypse, option. So, after some deliberation, and after Anathema’s cousin had begged off due to plans involving concert tickets, the professional descendant (retired) and witch (practicing) rang up Crowley’s mobile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley always sounded hunted when he answered his mobile, as if he were a bit worried about whose voice might be on the other, but was pretending at nonchalance. “Yeah, who’s this?” he asked. “Anathema Device,” Anathema answered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Book Girl!” Crowley exclaimed, relaxing. He’d attended her wedding, and known her for years, but some nicknames stuck. She rolled her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you and Aziraphale free on Thursday evening? Newt and I are going on a day trip, and need someone to look after Magrat while we’re away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you thought you’d ask a demon to babysit?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought I’d ask my friend. Don’t pretend you don’t adore babysitting her. She told me that you read her stories, last time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>did all the voices.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What can I say, she’s a little hellion. What’s not to love?” Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “Give me a moment.” There was a pause in which Anathema could hear Crowley having a murmured conversation with Aziraphale, before Crowley lifted the mobile again, voice coming through clear and audible. “Sure, we can take her for the day. You two kids go have some fun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema breathed a soft exhalation of relief. Promise secured, she began to let Crowley know exactly what he was in for.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Magrat Device did not want a babysitter. She was very certain that she should be allowed to stay up late on her own, thank you very much. She knew how to work a microwave, and had her parents on speed dial, and wouldn’t eat ice cream for dinner (honest!). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her parents disagreed, which was why Crowley and Aziraphale were currently poring over a takeout menu, on her parents’ couch, trying to determine what one might order in to feed a six year old.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema and Newt had named their daughter Magrat because Anathema knew the value, to a growing child, of being able to read one’s name in a book. Newt was pleased that this book, at least, while full of witches, fools, kings, and mistaken identity, did not involve an apocalypse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t that Magrat didn’t like spending time with Crowley and Aziraphale. The last time they had babysat her, they had gone to the park and Aziraphale had showed her how to feed the ducks, and Crowley had gotten her an ice cream, and then they had gone home and read from her favorite book--the one that had her name in it. But, the thing was, that had been when Magrat was </span>
  <em>
    <span>five.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Now, Magrat was </span>
  <em>
    <span>six</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that was different. Six was grown up. Six year olds didn’t need babysitters, because six year olds weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>babies.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What would you like to eat, dear girl?” Aziraphale asked. “Is a curry too spicy? Or would you like some of the smoked trout and quiche from that lovely little cafe down the street.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magrat scowled, shoulders hunched up near her ears. “I don’t want anything to eat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a growing child. Can’t you try to eat something?” The angel looked pleadingly at her. “It’s alright if you don’t finish it, but I shouldn’t like to think of you going hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magrat shook her head stubbornly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell you what,” Crowley said. “How about we order a sampler of a few things, and if anything piques your interest, you can try some of it. If not? Well, we’ll just leave the leftovers for your parents--save them having to cook tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the takeaway arrived, it smelled enticingly of saffron, spices, butter, and fresh bread. Magrat stubbornly turned away, even as her stomach growled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Crowley decided, clapping his hands and straightening up out of his artful sprawl. “I know you don’t want to be babysat. Why would you? You aren’t a baby, and babysitting just sounds a bit demeaning. Or painful. The thing is, though, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>aren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>just your babysitters, Magrat.” He tilted his head down to meet her hazel-colored eyes. She could just catch a glimpse of his bright yellow ones beneath the dark lenses of the sunglasses. “You’re a witch, so we’re your</span>
  <em>
    <span> magic </span>
  </em>
  <span>babysitters. Like when Hagrid took Harry Potter to Diagon Alley for school supplies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magrat came slowly out of her slouch, considering this. “You’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic,</span>
  </em>
  <span> though,” she argued. “Not like wizards, or witches, anyway. You’re an angel and a demon. You don’t have magic wands, or pointy hats, or cauldrons. You don’t pull rabbits out of hats. You might as well just be boring old </span>
  <em>
    <span>regular </span>
  </em>
  <span>babysitters, like Wensleydale or Auntie Sue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale perked up, looking triumphant. “Oh, you think so, do you?” he asked. “Find me a hat, my dear, and we shall see!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley groaned. “Oh, angel, please not that. If she wants a rabbit, just miracle one up! Don’t you remember what happened last time? This is going to end in cream cake stains and tears--mostly mine--you mark my words.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiled serenely. “Nonsense, my dear. Now, Magrat, a hat, please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magrat pulled a baseball cap from where it had been tossed onto the end of one of the umbrellas in the stand by the door. “It’s not the right kind,” she said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, any hat will do. Now, I want you to check that it’s empty.” Magrat reached into the hat, feeling only the canvas material it was made from. “It’s empty,” she confirmed, interested in spite of herself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, now I need a magic wand.” Aziraphale looked around himself, as if expecting one might conveniently appear. It didn’t, so Azirphale snatched up a fork from the bag of takeaway on the table. He puffed out his chest, and cleared his throat theatrically. “Abracadabra expecto patronum bibbity bobbity expelliarmus!” The angel tapped the slightly rumpled baseball cap three times with his magic fork, and then picked it up and put it on his head. He wiggled his fingers, his eyes theatrically wide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magrat leaned forward, despite herself. Crowley covered his face with his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a dramatic, “Ta da!” Aziraphale whipped the cap off of his head and presented it to his audience. “One rabbit, as ordered!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a pause. Aziraphale looked into the still-empty hat with bewilderment. Magrat and Crowley, however, were unable to tear their eyes away from the furry, bewhiskered little bunny rabbit that was perched comfortably amidst Aziraphale’s fluffy curls. His little pink nose twitched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, Aziraphale’s eyes turned upwards towards his hairline, and he yelped, and made a grab for the rabbit, which leapt off of his head acrobatically and right onto the table, upturning the dish of eclairs, sending them flying through the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did I tell you?” Crowley asked, snapping his fingers. The eclairs settled back onto the plate on the table. And the rabbit was rather confused, but ultimately pleased, to suddenly find itself in the middle of a heavily guarded and carefully fortified garden of prize-winning vegetables (inciting wrath and suspicion of sabotage in the gardener, when he discovered the ensuing damage).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmphghhahaha,” a peculiar half-strangled noise escaped Magrat’s mouth, like the first bit of water springing through the crack in a dam, presaging the deluge. She laughed until she had tears running down her face. Aziraphale, his face softening from bewildered shock to delight and fondness, laughed with her. Crowley, despite himself, let go of his second-hand embarrassment to join them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The real magic trick, Aziraphale would explain to Crowley after the angel, the demon, and Magrat had finished their dinner, and demolished a respectable number of chocolate eclairs, was not pulling the rabbit from the hat. The real magic was surprise, wonder, and laughter.</span>
</p>
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